Chapter 3: Roasted Garlic Mashed Potatoes

Mehsen came home from work the next day to find his wife in the kitchen with the door to the house open. He entered, put the bag of groceries down on the living room floor, and stood there with his hands around his waist. He was ready to make Adila feel terrible about this erratic forgetfulness of the door being wide open. Hoping that Adila would turn around soon and see him standing there, he stood there for the sole reason of pointing out the “open door” that she left absentmindedly. Then he would carry on to point out to her that it is unsafe and make her recognize how lucky she is to have him around because God knows what could happen if he did NOT come home right in time before any burglar walks in, steals their things, and possibly murders her.

Before the war, whether Mehsen knew it or not, he never needed to make anyone know how important he was. He was important to the whole village; he was the only carpenter. Since the war started, not many people needed new things made of wood; in fact, they actually broke down whatever he built them to use as firewood. He left the village and moved to Lebanon where he lived in a three bedroom home with six other Syrian families. Adila was pregnant then, 

Once she gave birth, he realized that living with six other families that were also expanding was not a good idea. So he took Adila, and new baby Moustafa, and went to live in Jordan. Conditions were better there, he heard, and he was promised an exit to Europe. He lived in a tent in Jordan. He lived in a tent in Greece as well. He was not important in any of these countries. He was useless. This he felt, and it made him very tense. He handled situations like "the case of the open door" with a lot of drama and theatricality.  

Adila glanced quickly, then turned right back around to the new cookbook she went and bought that same day. In English. She could not find one in Arabic. She knew the alphabet in English, she also knew the numbers, but even though everyone around her says "English is easy, Arabic is hard!" this cookbook is not supporting that claim. 

She knew she hated cooking, to start with, and the language barrier was not helping. She turned around again, Mehsen was still standing there, so she asked him to bring the bag of groceries into the kitchen and help her figure out the recipe. She did not notice at all his scene, and he could not believe it! On top of everything, she is asking him to cook? What is HE a woman now? What will his mother think when she visits? What else is he supposed to do: clean the house and soon start popping out babies? 

He said all that out loud.

She blinked, standing frozen for a minute. Then her eyes watered, she turned to the cook book again, opened it, then closed it, and took it with her to the bathroom and shut the door behind her. She closed the toilet seat and sat on it, then placed the cook book on her lap, open to a recipe of Roasted Garlic Mashed Potatoes, out of which she only understood potatoes, and the picture indicated they were squooshed somehow, but which word is "squooshed?" “Maaaashed, rooaast … okay I cannot even guess how this one is pronounced, maybe garlic?” Oh, this is too hard! Then she noticed the tears falling down her cheeks and landing on the pages of her cookbook. She knew she was not upset because Mehsen said these words to her as she is quite used to him bursting out like that. I guess men have to scream sometimes, and it is quite acceptable. But she was anxious, she was terribly upset about something - something else entirely. When she stopped to think for a second, she heard Mehsen close the entrance door. So she got up, counted to ten, and went out of the bathroom. No one was in the living room as Mehsen was already in the bedroom changing. She went to the kitchen and started peeling potatoes. Her logic told her that in order for her to "squoosh" them, she needed to boil them first.

A few minutes later, Mehsen came out, walked to the kitchen and told her that he did not mean to yell, but she knows that "this is not a safe country either." Yes there is no bombing, and no war, but he knew quite well from all the Cops episodes that bad guys are everywhere. Then he noticed the cookbook. THAT is new. Adila was trying to improve her kitchen skills, he thought, for him. He felt very special all of a sudden and a bit ashamed. So he grabbed her head with his two hands and kissed her forehead and said: “God bless you for me Adila, you are only trying to be a good housewife, your mom will be pleased, you know 'a road to a man’s heart is through his stomach.'" Yeah, yeah, Adila knew that very well. Everyone she knew told it to her at some point: her mother, his mother, her sister, his sister, everyone except for Moustafa, her son.

Moustafa was at his friend’s house playing; she picked him up from the bus stop with Ibrahim, and they went up to Ibrahim’s house to play a little bit. Ibrahim’s dad hired a nanny in the past two months since the school started to help out his mother who came to live with him now that his wife had passed.

Adila went up sometimes to have coffee with Amma Salima, but she usually ended up listening to stories and stories about Sudan that reminded her of home, and she left most of the time with sadness in her heart. Amma Salima always dominated the conversation, not that Adila put up any resistance. Adila was not talkative to start with, but it didn't help either that she was there upon the request of her husband, to show courtesy and neighborly feeling towards the older lady. This time, however, Adila did not go up with her son; she sent him alone, and she was trying to cook.

Mehsen asked about Moustafa, and then suggested he should go get him. Adila only nodded but did not respond; she was taken with her potatoes. The pot on the stove was boiling when Moustafa, Ibrahim, and his dad came back. She was still peeling the potatoes. Every once in a while, she would glance over to the recipe thinking that maybe she will catch some tip she did not before, or something would happen magically, and she would understand what the hell this thing is about - it looks great in the picture.

She looked back and saw them, the two boys were standing there, and Mehsen came towards her whispering: “I don’t think it was nice to send our son for Amma Salima to take care of alone without you. She gave me an attitude, so I suggested I bring Ibrahim with me to make up for it.” “She wasn't taking care of him alone. An attitude, why?” “Well, she asked me where were you and why you sent the kid alone without coming for coffee, but with a tone.” Adila did not respond. “I told her you were cooking. She did not believe me, she hinted that she was tired ,and the boys were running around, so she had a headache, and the nanny left, so I took the boys until Adnan comes back from his work.”

Adila looked at him, looked into his eyes, and then looked back to the book. He left the kitchen and sat down on his sofa, his remote already in hand.

Adila suddenly had an idea, so she called the boys, sat them in the kitchen, and told them to tell her what is in the recipe. Moustafa was, of course, too young to read, but Ibrahim was seven, and he was reading now. He also told her that he had a dictionary up at his place, but Adila didn't want him to go get it as she didn't want to see Amma Salima. That's when he told her that she could search for the words online. Online, online, she has a phone with Internet, she could use it, he could show her how … she gave him the phone, and he showed her. Oh, she was fascinated by this discover, and the kids were loving this. Adila almost never interacted this way with either of the boys, and she was rarely impressed with anything. They both felt very important. After a long search, Adila learned that she needed to roast the garlic in the oven while she was peeling the potatoes.

The boys moved on to show her how she could tell ingredients and measurements, not just in this recipe, but in all the recipes. They could not figure out who Rosemary was, but Adila thought that it was probably someone's aunt's recipe. So by the end of the hour, she was able to read the quantities. The boys argued sometimes because Ibrahim was sucking up all of the attention, and Moustafa felt left out, so his contribution was uttering random sentences that would not mean anything to Adila but confuse her, so she shushed him a few times. He then contributed differently by kicking the side of the chair monotonously or making noises somewhere else in the kitchen.

After she dropped the potatoes in the pot, Ibrahim told her that there are a few words he did not know himself. He never really cooked, his mother died, and his grandma never lets him get anywhere near a kitchen, but this recipe seemed easy, and Adila should know now how to search for words. Mehsen was getting hungry, and he called for Ibrahim to take him back up. Adila asked to keep him a little longer, but Mehsen wanted to eat, so he stood by the door and called on the boy again. Ibrahim politely said goodnight to Mrs. and waved to Moustafa and followed Mehsen out of the apartment.

Adila suddenly lost motivation, and she realized this was only a variation of a recipe she already knew, and it was only a side dish. She was overwhelmed and intimidated by big words. She grabbed the book and flung it across the room. She suddenly felt her anxiousness come back. She was upset again, miserable and defeated. 

 

For the third time in less than a day, she cried again, this time bitter tears, silent bitter tears. She sobbed, and she did not understand exactly why she was feeling this way. Then … she heard a giggle outside … she jumped to the door as she recognized the voice - it was the girl! She was outside, she could not see her, but her heart was pounding; she could feel it is her. She heard keys in the door, and yes, she now could hear the dark haired neighbor talk, and his voice was low, there is the bass vibration that went through her body when she pressed her ear to the wall. His voice was soothing, she did not know what he was saying, it was too fast, and of course all in English - or any other language for that matter, it was not Arabic.

A few seconds later, Mehsen walked into the door, through the living room door, not the kitchen, and she fumbled around, as if she were doing something she did not want to be caught doing, and suddenly she realized she is excited, and adrenaline rushed through her body like fire. She went to the living room, picked up the cookbook, kissed her husband on the cheek, and went back to the kitchen to get dinner ready.

Chapter 2: 3eib!!!

Adila did not notice that for the past half hour her husband was still sitting in his bedroom missing the rest of his show, until he called for her. She was entangled in the three-way conversation where she found herself the center of attention for once. As soon as she heard him though, she rushed to him. She was not afraid, but it was rude for him to call on her when they had guests. Back in Syria, the guests would think they were not welcome; both Adila and Mehsen maintained good social etiquette. They were both from very small and remote villages, but they were raised with traditional values. One of these values was “the guest is a king in your house.” But here, in this case, Adila went too far in Mehsen’s opinion. She hurried to the door of their bedroom and hushed him quickly in worries that the guest might be offended.

Mehsen asked, “Who exactly is this female? And why is she not leaving yet? What does she want?” When Adila assured Mehsen that the girl is looking for their neighbor, Mehsen interrupted: “The bachelor with the dark hair?” “I don’t know who,” and she quickly recited to her husband how she encountered the girl. “We talked about Syria, how we got here, Mustafa is translating.” Then Mehsen told her that the neighbor is this guy “who is not married and does not have kids, why is the girl visiting a bachelor in his house unaccompanied?”

Mehsen saw the bachelor in question a couple of times, he pointed out. Then he asked Adila if the girl has plans to leave, and Adila impatiently replied: “I don’t know, I can not ask her to leave, 3eib" (which means shameful). She closed the door before her husband could squeeze in any more complaints and went back to the kitchen. The girl was standing, holding her purse, and she already put her coffee cup in the sink. Moustafa was showing her his truck and how his big wheels are stuck because Ibrahim, his friend, stepped on it few days ago.

Adila smiled dramatically to make sure that the girl does not detect any problems with any arrangements and that no one is bothered by her presence. But the girl wanted to leave, so she extended her arm to Adila, then decided that she wanted to hug Adila, so she hugged her; Adila froze. Now that was not expected, for some reason she was a little bit uncomfortable with that gesture from the American, then she hugged her back tightly, and before she knew it she cried, and then she sobbed.

The girl did not know what to do, so she sat Adila down: “Are you ok? Are you ok?” She turned to the boy: “Is she ok?” Moustafa stood unknowing what to do. He told his mom that the girl is asking her if she were ok, and the mother told him to tell the girl that she was fine. She just misses her family. “Of course” the girl understood the sentiment, but she was pressed on time, and she wanted to know if her friend was back. So she told Adila that she thought her “very brave, and very kind, and very strong.” Adila loved these words, they made her smile, and made her stop crying, and she thought that she really really liked this girl; they have a connection. She asked her to come back often for coffee. The girl nodded, “Sure!”

She walked her out and waited for her until she knocked, and the door opened, and she went in with a quick wave back to Adila and a pop of the head from the dark haired neighbor and a smile and a nod, and it was all over. Adila went back in with a sinking feeling, she walked passively to the table and sat down. She was sad. For some reason she was very sad; she did not want the girl to go. She looked to the sink and saw that her dishes were still there, so absentmindedly she started rinsing them off, then she remembered her husband trapped in the bedroom, so she sent Moustafa to get his father out of there.

Mehsen was fuming, he complained some, but he realized Adila was silent more than usual, and she looked like she cried, so he wrapped up his complaints and went back to the T.V. He was aware of the sadness that was overwhelming his wife; somehow every time she remembered Syria, she cried. She missed her house, her mother, her sisters, and her neighbors.

Adila never really went anywhere, and she was always quiet. She recognized the alphabet, she knew a few sentences in English, but she didn’t know how to drive, and she never finished high school. Also, he didn’t approve of his wife working, and even if he did, his mother would not let him hear the end of it, and even if he was able to convince his mother, Adila does not have any skills to allow her to work anywhere. She was also very shy and quiet.

Mehsen knew that Adila is a good woman, maybe her kitchen skills are very limited, but the poor thing tries. She had been very patient with the misplacement that happened. He knew it was not easy.

Mehsen met Adila in his village when she was visiting his aunt, then he asked his aunt about her, and his aunt praised Adila on her upbringing, and he arranged to meet her parents, and within few weeks he was married to her. Adila was 20 back then; now she was almost 27. She was quite uneventful and uncomplaining; things were going well. He respected her, and he valued her quite enough.

Out of respect for his wife’s feelings, Mehsen kept the T.V on a very low volume so she could listen to her Fairouz which reminded her of home; that makes her calm down. Mehsen never knew how to soothe his wife, but he had a lot of trust in Fairouz. “Fairouz is quite magical,” he thought. He praised himself introspectively for being so savvy in women’s needs for space, so he gave Adila a lot of space most of the time. Almost always.

Adila finished the dishes, Fairouz was starting to get on her nerves, so she turned the music off. She looked at her counter-tops, they were clean, but she felt that she wants to give them a thorough scrubbing; she needed something to do to keep her mind busy. It was all too quiet. In her head she was back home, with her sisters, watching Arabic soap operas … she smiled bitterly, her eyes watering … then she heard something, a noise. She wrinkled her brows -“someone is in pain” she thought, oh here is that noise again, it sounded familiar, it was like moaning. She had goosebumps, but she did not know why, “Maybe someone is giving birth? GIVING BIRTH?!? What an idiot thought, of course no one is giving birth! It sounds like someone is … this sounds like utterances that her husband makes when they are together in bed … oh my … oh no, but the girl is making them as well! I should not be hearing this, maybe I should turn the music back on.” Her hands were now shaking, she felt like she was exposed to something that she did not want to be part of, something she shouldn’t hear. “Can Mehsen hear that?” She glanced quickly at her husband who was reclined nonchalantly on the sofa, quite comfortable with his relationship with the program. Then she tiptoed to the side of the kitchen where no one could hear her, and she pressed her ear to the wall.

Adila could not turn the music back on, she ­­­­knew that in a little bit this girl is going to realize that she has been shamed, and she is going to be crying. “Oh, how did I let this girl fool me? I thought she was a good girl, she seemed like she is a good girl, oh this man has tricked her, maybe he made her drink something, and he is taking advantage of her.” Adila was quite upset now. She was worried too. “What if Mehsen hears this? He is going to think that I am welcoming girls in my house that are of low character.”

“He is going to think that he married someone who does not know good from bad, and then he will talk about the incident with his mother, and his mother will report back to her daughter, and the whole village is going to be talking about how terrible Mehsen's choice in wives is. Oh no, this will bring shame to my family, my father will be too embarrassed to show his face on the street.” But Adila, with all of her overwhelming feeling of doom and shame for herself, she could not resist thinking about that poor girl’s fate. “When that poor girl’s father or brother know about this, they will kill her!”

The moaning escalated, and Adila pressed her ear to the wall even harder, then she was quite bothered by new “shrieks,” so she pulled back and hit the fridge, from the far right side of the kitchen where her husband could not see her. Then she stood frozen. She heard nothing. She pressed hard again, and nothing was on the other side. She heard her husband move in the living room, so she opened the cabinet and emptied it and removed the pots and started cleaning the lower cabinets. But she moved slowly and quietly to make sure not to cover the noise if it were to happen again.

She cleaned and rubbed, she was worried, and nothing was happening. Time was moving slowly, then the door opened outside. She knew it was apartment 409. She stood up quickly, and pressed her ear to the door; the girl was giggling, she was speaking in English, and she was not ashamed! She was not crying! Nothing! Maybe he gave her drugs or ALCOHOL! Adila heard since she was little that alcohol is bad, it is the works of the devil, and it makes you do things without knowing that you are doing them. They had a man who lived two doors down back in the village in Syria, in Deir EL Zor, that man used to drink, he was an alcoholic. “Oh poor girl!” Adila decided that the man next door is a terrible person, but he might redeem himself if he marries her.

She opened the door slightly and quietly peeped out, and she saw the girl walking away towards the elevator with a bounce to her step. Adila was puzzled.  

Chapter 1: Adila

  

Adila was cooking in her­ kitchen as usual. She never really cared much for cooking, but in her culture it was the norm for a woman to know how to cook. It was a source of pride to one’s family that their daughter is a good cook, or their daughter in law, but in this case, both sets were not particularly impressed with how Adila handled her kitchen.

Her husband Mehsen was a carpenter. He worked specific hours, and very rarely did he have to stay later at work. Only on rare occasions does he get called to take measurements in someone’s home, so he stays later on those days.

They fled Syria after the war started; they lived in tents in Europe, and nine months ago they entered the U.S on a refugee visa.

Adila was pregnant with their son Moustafa (named after Mehsen’s father) when they left Syria, and now their son is 5 years old.

Their life together was very stable, very normal to any Middle Eastern standards. They were both from Syria, and they were both uncomplaining.

Mehsen checked the television, there was something wrong with the remote control, and he said some words in Arabic about how life is difficult while he was replacing the batteries on his remote. Adila did not really care much about the complaints her husband was registering, and only told him that "dinner is ready." He clicked the button and saw that his favorite program was starting, and he went to the table walking slowly backwards watching it start.

Very often, Mehsen watched Cops, Cold Cases, and Unsolved Mysteries. For some reason, seeing how effective the American police were made him feel safe about the new home that adopted them. But it wasn’t just for emotional reassurance that he watched these programs, they were thrilling, and he was obsessed.

Adila wiped her hands on the kitchen towel and went to get Moustafa seated; he was shuffling Pokémon cards aimlessly but passionately. She tapped him on the shoulder and told him to go sit down, and he rose from the ground, walked to the table with his eyes on the cards, and sat down. After that no one said a word, utensils were clicking and everyone afterwards started eating.

When Moustafa spilled his water on the table cloth, his dad cursed out loud, and Adila quickly grabbed the kitchen towel and tsked tsked a few times, then grabbed her son’s plate, and shoved some food on a fork and into his mouth angrily. The boy was ashamed - as he should be in both their opinions – and then Mehsen asked Adila if she knew anything about her good-for-nothing brother.

Adila replied that she hasn’t talked to her mother in Syria today, and she thinks her brother is in Turkey now. Mehsen expressed his disagreement with everything by huffing sarcastically and hoping his son does not turn out like his failure-of-an uncle, because Moustafa is very careless with the way he drinks his water, and most of the time he ends up spilling it. Adila did not have any comments to make regarding the water crisis.

The apartment building that they were living in was crowded, it was a huge project, but nothing really fancy, something they can afford on Mehsen’s salary.

They were apartment 410 and they did not really know their neighbors all that well. Mehsen’s friend on 10^th floor is from Sudan, his wife died of cancer last year, so often times, Mehsen takes Moustafa and goes up to Adnan’s house to keep his friend company and for his kid to play with Ibrahim, Adnan’s 7-year-old son.

Tonight however, Mehsen was not going anywhere. His program was on.

While the cops were chasing some lunatic on the highway, Adila was washing dishes. She called out for her husband to come take out the trash, but the police were really maneuvering, and she was sure she cannot beat “Cops” at this point. She grabbed the garbage bags and walked towards the “Shute Cabinet”- she crossed a beautiful girl coming out of the elevator wearing jeans with long strands of hair, the girl said hello in nodding, and Adila smiled shyly and shifted graciously out of the girl’s way. But the girl stopped in front of her, and asked her a question, in ENGLISH, a question she understood and knew the answer to. She was very happy that she still remembered the few phrases that her husband taught her just to get by.

So here we are, this girl wants to know if this lady, wearing this very baggy skirt and some kind of long sweater over it, with her hair bundled up somehow (in a ponytail maybe), anyway: “Do you know where apartment 409 is?” Adila nodded, and enthusiastically replied and pointed: “Yes, yes, here, yes, come…” She walked back towards her apartment and stopped at the door right next to hers, apartment 409. “Here, see” and Adila tapped at the numbers on the door and smiled proudly. This never happens. Her day normally starts and ends sometimes without her having to leave the house or talk to anyone but her family back home on the phone, or Facetime. Things are always quiet, very quiet, especially now that Moustafa goes to school during the day.

The girl smiled in gratitude and thanked Adila; Adila knew that the girl was thanking her, and she asked her to pass by to drink coffee sometimes in Arabic because that is what one is supposed to do when they meet strangers in Syria - they invite them over for coffee. She knew the word for “coffee” but the girl only understood “coffee” and she could make up the rest while knocking on the door. She told Adila that she loves “coffee” and Adila misunderstood that the girl was asking her if she could have coffee, like NOW… oh, but Adila was worried about the state of her house, and she has not put all the dishes away, and her husband is not too decent, but it is rude to turn the girl away. So she told her meekly, “yes, coffee, yes." The girl, having had no-one answer the door, agreed to the pleas of the insisting lady to grab some coffee NOW; she has nothing to lose, so she will grab a cup and try 409 again in a little bit.

Adila entered her house, and told Mehsen to go wear something decent, fast – they have company. She tried to wipe her counter tops quickly before rushing back to the door - which was at an arm’s length anyway - and let the girl in.

The girl walked in slowly, carefully, looking around without looking too closely, and she saw Moustafa; Moustafa speaks decent English. She asked him about his name, and he replied, then she asked him how old he was, and he replied, and all the while Adila was watching with great pride but not much comprehension the exchange between her son (who generally speaks Arabic with her) and that beautiful creature with the beautiful hair.

She put the “Rakweh” (Arabic coffee kettle) on the stove and asked the girl with the hair if she wants her coffee with sugar, by simply saying “sugar?” The girl said “umm, I never tried Turkish coffee before, whatever you like.” Ok, Adila has no idea what the hell that was, so she grabbed Moustafa by the arm without making it look so forceful, but it was, and asked him to stay near her in the kitchen to tell her what that lady is saying. Moustafa was faithfully translating by just telling his mom: “Whatever you like, she is saying.” Ok. Then the girl asked questions again, ones she maybe understood: “Where are you from?” I know this one she said quickly to her volunteering son, “I Syria.” “Oh wow, you are from Syria? Are you new here? Were you there during the bombings?” Ok these were easy, Adila could tell by now what American people normally ask when they know she is from Syria.

So she said “yes, yes, yes.” The girl was horrified; she sat down with her mouth slightly open.